


extremum vitae spiritum edere

by blobfish_miffy



Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angels, Angst, Banishment, Death, Demons, Fallen Angels, Family Dynamics, Gen, George is the Angel of Death, God is Not Great, Grim Reapers, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, John is a human, LITERALLY, Lennison - Freeform, Non-Graphic Violence, Paul is the devil, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supernatural Elements, Torture, Whump, a lot of thinking, but not really, george is attracted to john but he doesn't know, george whump, paul is a great brother, this sort of hint towards gay but there's not enough gay to make it gay ya feel, trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27386677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: It was an accident, really.During the late evening of the eight of December, eighteen-sixty, the barn of one Timothy Johnson burst into wild, tumultuous flame, trapping its only occupant inside. He was supposed to pass away from internal and blunt-force trauma a minute after landing.A mere twenty years old: the day of his death would be two months after his birthday. John Winston Lennon was a son, a nephew, a friend, a fiancé, and a young, learnt man on his way to apply for a job he would have gotten had he lived. He would have been a father, as his firstborn son would have been born nine months after he had tied the knot with the woman he loved.It was such a pity to see a potentially fulfilling life snuffed out in a second.***In which George is the angel who carries souls to purgatory, hell, and heaven, and John is the little human who makes him question whether humans truly don't deserve a chance at a longer life should they so wish.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon, George Harrison & Paul McCartney
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15
Collections: Halloqueer 2020





	1. mortifer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmSheshan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/gifts).



_ make the most of your life _

_ while it is rife _

_ while it is light  _

_ - _ fourth of july, sufjan stevens 

The curiosity of human life was how it was, in essence, so incredibly fleeting. 

For the most part, God’s little creatures lived for less than what they called “a century”, scrambling to swipe together fulfilling actions that would make them feel as if their time as breathing creatures would not be meaningless. 

To think that they existed for nothing other than to be funny little playthings,  _ toys,  _ made George pity them. 

They tried  _ so hard  _ to make their life meaningful, to fill it with love and kindness and importance and  _ faith, _ and yet in the all-seeing eyes of His Divinity - or  _ Father,  _ as He preferred George and his siblings to call Him - they were disposable: ants crawling on an algae-stained white-plastic lawn chair towards the spilt crumbs and drops of love and acceptance. And whenever His Divinity pressed His finger on one of the humans, whenever He captured them and burnt them and played with them and flattened their souls down, He sent George on his way:  _ “It is time for that one,”  _ He’d say, voice an odd concoction of complacency, disdain, sadness, and that ever-present authority.  _ “Pluck it. Have it judged.” _

And, as George had no strength to go against His Divinity, he would listen, travelling to Earth in a whirlwind of ancient magic and wings.

The living humans hated his appearance.

They hated his presence and hated his departure. Even if they were aware they should not fear him, that they should welcome his arrival with acceptance and thankfulness, they despised him to the bone. They were convinced all he did was  _ take  _ and  _ steal;  _ yet that could not be further from the truth, as the souls he gently took by the hand and led to the Afterlife had  _ finished  _ their time on Earth. No-one went before their time, so said His Divinity, as He had secured their birth and death at times He deemed good. It didn’t matter to Him how they lived their lives and how their decisions would lead them to their demise; He decided how and when they were born, and how and when they would die. 

For both of those occasions, he used George.

_Azrael, Thanatos,_ _Maweth_ ; The Angel of Death, the Fourth Horseman, The Grim Reaper, and even Father Time. George didn’t particularly like the nicknames. It wasn’t like those-who-called-him-those were _wrong_ per sé, but they also weren’t fully _right._ He wasn’t _just_ Death; he sowed, he tended, he reaped. He cared for Earth like a farmer would care for their lands. He represented the cycle that was life; what other name would fit him better than _George,_ the farmer, he who works the earth, as he was the being that took care of His Divinity’s little playthings? 

George worked Earth, carefully planted and plucked the curious creatures when it was needed and when it was their time; whether they were mere saplings, full and ripe fruits, or overripe and rotting sacks, George tended to His Divinity’s yard, careful to not pick anything that had not finished its life yet.

The ones who had peace with death were the nice reapings. 

They would wait for him, smile at his presence while their family spat in his direction, and would take his hand. They’d come along as if they were happy to leave their earthly home behind, whispered  _ finally  _ and  _ I understand  _ as he told them it was their time. Sometimes they were confused yet pleased to accompany him to the space they called purgatory, where the souls he reaped would wait their turn to be judged. 

The ones who begged for their life, however, made his purpose quite difficult. George  _ had  _ a soul, after all,  _ had  _ a conscience and  _ had  _ empathy albeit produced from the very essence of His Divinity Himself rather than crafted secondhand. It was  _ difficult _ when they were resting on their knees, murmuring a plea and prayer to spare them this time, to take them  _ later  _ than what was in His Divinity’s plan for them. They’d meet his gaze, their mass-produced souls flickering with unabashed fear and determination, and they would plead with him to let them stay. And he could not help but feel sorry that he had to take them, had to tell them that it was  _ over and done  _ when they so fiercely wanted to live; those who were expelled from their bodies in violent, murderous ways, either by nature or by humankind itself, who  _ deserved  _ to live longer, who  _ deserved  _ to stay and live and breathe, sow and nurture and reap. 

He had never been allowed to spare a human and he had also never done so anyway. He did not know the details of the consequences, but he knew there  _ were  _ consequences; the last time one of his siblings had defied His Divinity orders was eons ago and he had been sent down ‘til  _ under  _ Earth, wings mutilated and divine skin scorched by His light. He had burnt as he fell down, a ball of flame that crashed into Earth and set it ablaze. He’d always loved the humans, George knew, yet he was the being that humankind feared most as he punished those who had been evil in the lifetime they were allowed to shape themselves. Being a punisher to the beings he adored, His Divinity had told them, was his own punishment for stepping out of line.

They called him Satan, the Devil, Diabolo. 

They were titles, nicknames, similar to George’s own as The Angel of Death. They were not his given names, the one His Divinity had given his favourite child, as that was Lightbringer.  _ Lucifer,  _ actually, Son of Dawn, the Morningstar. To George, who still visited his brother regularly to bring the souls that had been sentenced to an eternity of torture, the scaled, winged, slit-tongued being that represented everything evil to humans was simply known as Paul. 

It was a name contradicting his very presence, as Paul was anything but small and humble; imposingly large and prideful, yes. He also did not look one bit like the gory depiction humans painted and drew and shared, other than the fiery intensity his gaze often held. The Devil was beautiful, as if carved by the finest artists humans had to offer, in the divine way only the children of His Divinity could be.

Paul was, most importantly, nice. 

He offered George a semblance of how humans lived, sitting him down with a hot concoction called  _ tea  _ and some hard, crumbly baked goods called  _ biscuits  _ and allowing him to speak his mind. George did not do so often, perfectly aware that His Divinity had eyes able to see everything and ears able to hear all, so when he did speak he chose his words carefully. Paul listened, nodded, and made comments when he saw fit. He, too, never said more than what was needed; despite having Fallen, and despite being seated on the very throne of the Underworld, he was still under the watchful eye of their Father. 

Paul seemed to understand George’s issues with taking humans who did not want to go. Of course he did, as he loved humans and their quirks as fiercely as George did; it was why he did not break under the pressure of torturing human souls who had purposefully harmed the innocent for no other reason than to please themselves. 

_ “George,” _ Paul had once said after a day when George had had to take more unwilling souls than usual,  _ “I understand your predicament. I understand the temptation to let them stay more than anyone.”  _

_ “I would hope so,”  _ George had answered, and he’d taken a sip of his tea.  _ “You are temptation itself, are you not?” _

Paul had not laughed as he usually would have at such a quip. Instead he had sighed, frowned, and looked exhausted in an awfully human way.  _ “I pray you will not give in, George. You’d step out of line.” _

_ “I’d be punished.” _

_ “And Father’s punishments are rather creative, I’m afraid,” _ and he’d smiled a sad little smile, so forced it looked painful.  _ “Promise me, dear brother, that you will try everything in your power to not give in.” _

George had searched Paul’s eyes. The colour of them - a deep, kaleidoscope hazel - was deeper than usual; hellfire, that had simmered behind his irises ever since his fall, had flared up with intensity. He’d been serious, deadly so, and George had swallowed drily.  _ “I promise.” _

And he had not given in. For centuries, he had not. Those odd cycles of time that humans called years had leisurely strolled past, and not once had George given into the temptation to spare one soul. He had reaped all he had to instead, brought them to be judged, and led them up to the Afterlife or down to the Underworld. He’d done his duty, day after day, week after week, year after year, decade after decade. He’d listen to his Father, had spoken with his siblings, and had sat down with Paul for tea and biscuits. And every single time at the end of his visit, when he would be stretching his wings to leave, Paul reminded him:  _ “Do not give in.” _

So he’d lasted. 

It should have gotten boring. The temptations should have subsided with its normalcy, the repetition of it all. He should have fallen into a routine after millennia of reaping souls. But he had not; despite the concept of reaping being easier than snapping his fingers, he struggled every single time a soul begged to be spared. Even with Paul’s pressing words echoing through his mind it was hard to not just let one soul be, to let them stay and live out the rest of their life.

The intensity of Paul’s warning obviously stemmed from the very torture that his punishment was for him. Despite his fear of experiencing something as similarly traumatic as Paul, George could not help but wonder in a rather macabre fashion what  _ his  _ punishment would be. And, to his complete and utter dismay, every time he reaped a begging soul a tiny voice he vaguely recognised but could not place whispered:  _ “Why don’t you spare this one? Wouldn’t you like to know what He’ll do?” _

He’d managed to shake it off thus far, having shoved the voice into the back of his head with force. But every time he reaped yet another soul who did not want to leave, who cried and begged and clutched at his robes in desperation, the voice came back, hissing, as tempting as a cool, blood-red, juicy apple on a warm summer’s day. 

It was an accident, really.

He’d been travelling for a while. He was tired. He had to  _ rest,  _ sometimes, because humans had to rest in order to function properly. He was almost at his destination. The barn had been entirely void of creatures other than rats and a stray cat, and the straw had looked so  _ comfortable.  _ There had been a lamp, even, a lantern that worked on oil and that meant that the young trespasser would be able to read before sleeping.

But the cat had been chasing a rat, and the rat had decided to attack the cat, and the cat had hissed and jumped back and bumped into the burning oil lamp. The trespasser, knowing he was currently in a highly flammable environment, had tried to grasp the lamp. Though his attempt had been brave, and his reflexes had been quick, he had misjudged and he had fallen from the heightened platform. He hit the ground less than a second after the oil lamp had shattered on the stone floor, right next to a pile of dried grass.

And so, during the late evening of the eight of December, eighteen-sixty, the barn of one Timothy Johnson burst into wild, tumultuous flame, trapping its only occupant inside. He was supposed to pass away from internal and blunt-force trauma a minute after landing.

George was perfectly aware that it was this human’s time. He had read the lad’s name, his birth chart, and his death chart in The Book of Time. A mere twenty years old: the day of his death would be two months after his birthday. John Winston Lennon was a son, a nephew, a friend, a fiancé, and a young, learnt man on his way to apply for a job he would have gotten had he lived. He would have been a father, as his firstborn son would have been born nine months after he had tied the knot with the woman he loved.

It was such a pity to see a potentially fulfilling life snuffed out in a second.

By the time George had appeared in the barn, crouching next to the human, it had gotten quite toasty; flames hungrily licked at the dried-out wood, engulfed the straw and hay with vigour. The doors to the barn were already burning, and its large, iron handles were starting to glow with heat.

George, in a weird, morbid way, was rather pleased the cat had at least gotten out before the fire had gotten too bad. So much could not be said about the soul he was about to reap.

Had he not known any better, and had he not seen the puddle of blood spreading out from under the boy’s head, he would have thought that the human was asleep. Messy hair, glasses lopsided, mouth slightly open; despite that, he looked awfully handsome for a human, and George’s fingers itched to tidy him up. He may have been a supernatural, extremely powerful, immortal being, but John was rather attractive and deserved to be treated with respect.

It was not like he had not done it before, anyway. There were enough times George had straightened lapels, wiped a string of blood from a chin, or combed hair.

And so, George did.

He straightened up the glasses and smoothed down the wild curls gently; he pulled the creases out of his jacket, buttoned an extra button of his shirt, and closed his mouth.  _ There,  _ he thought,  _ presentable for The Court. _

He almost smiled, had it not been an incredibly sad situation. He was convinced humans deserved a lot more than Father gave them. Had he been able to, he would have given John Lennon a couple more years, at least: enough to see his son grow old enough to work, at least. But he could not, as he was merely the Angel of Death and could not change Father’s plan. And so, with a feeling of reluctance, he reached out his hand to take the human’s.

His eyes shot open.

George froze in place, fingers mere centimetres from the other’s, and he slowly met the human’s  _ alive  _ gaze.

_“Spare_ me,” the human croaked, and George noticed that blood was coating his teeth. His eyes - light brown, bright, bloodshot, brimming with tears, _warm_ \- blinked at his form, and the young man took a rasping breath. _“Please,_ Azrael-”

And time came to a halt around them. The flames froze mid-crackle, the wind stopped howling around them, and it became eerily quiet.

It was not often that George had to pause the world so that he could think about what he was going to do. He hadn’t done it once in the last two centuries, at least, not after he’d very  _ nearly  _ spared a human and Paul’s warning had suddenly been so loud in his head he had no other choice but to reap, if only out of fright. He’d been careful since then, had reaped without thinking as he did not want to risk  _ stepping out of line. _

But  _ now- _

This human knew one of his given names. 

He knew one of his  _ given names,  _ did not call him by one of his many nicknames, did not call him  _ God  _ or  _ Satan  _ or any one of those misidentifications that irked him to no end. The human knew  _ him. _

“Why should I?” he asked quietly, and he searched the boy’s pretty eyes. “Why should I spare you, one soul, when I have not spared one in the millennia I have reaped? Why should I let you live?”

The human took another rasping breath and closed his eyes to swallow.

“I- I want to say goodbye to my family.”

“I have taken men with better reasons, my love.”

“I am not afraid of death,” he coughed, “or of you, f- for that matter. I’ll come along willingly if you- if you just let me say goodbye to my aunt,  _ please,  _ she’s already lost so much-”

George cocked his head in curiosity. It was always interesting to encounter a soul willing to go only if their family had peace with their passing; one adamant and desperate not to leave not because they feared death, but because they feared how it would affect those closest to them. John, despite having a whole lot to live for, had made peace with the potential of death but still wanted to visit his family. 

George forced himself to grin in a sad attempt to look intimidating.

“You are one interesting little human soul, are you not?” he crooned, bowing down further. He was close enough to feel the human’s breath on his face; any closer, and they would touch noses. “So  _ young,  _ so unknowing of what the future will hold. There is still so much you can do if you live, so much to  _ experience,  _ and yet all you want to do is say  _ goodbye.” _

“Let me live,” John begged, voice completely and entirely shot, “for a little longer. To say goodbye, for my family to come to terms with me being gone. Then- then you can take me.  _ Please-” _

“That’s not really how it  _ works,  _ my beautiful,  _ intriguing _ boy,” he replied. “The old man up there has got a timer on everyone, you see? And it is your time. I’ll need to take you-”

_ “Please,”  _ John croaked, and the tears had finally made their way out of his swelling eyes.  _ “Please  _ let me say goodbye…”

Though the world had come to a standstill, the wind picked up and thunder rumbled in the distance as if a warning. A being stronger than George had pushed Mother Nature to sound Her alarm; his siblings, most likely, trying their hardest to make him  _ rethink.  _

_ Beware, beware, beware,  _ the wind chanted in a hundred voices,  _ do not sacrifice your status- _

_ “So why don’t you spare this one, my child?”  _ the little voice in his head whispered, ignoring the chants entirely.  _ “Would you not like to see what He’ll do?” _

George’s grin had faded, and he was staring at John’s bruised, human,  _ fragile  _ face as his divine blood was rushing through his limbs, dancing through his veins at the quickened beat of his heart. John’s soul was glowing with  _ life  _ underneath his eyes, a bright, thrumming gold as opposed to the usual muted grey and blue. 

Was this human- had the Book of Life been mistaken? 

_ NO,  _ the thunder shouted. 

_ “Yes,” _ the voice hissed,  _ “yes, spare him, spare him-” _

George swallowed.

_ “Please,”  _ John whispered,  _ “please, Azrael-” _

And in one, swift decision, George extinguished the fire, unpaused the world, and flew away.

Of course His Divinity would be angered by his actions. 

He had  _ spared  _ a  _ human.  _ He was not allowed to do so, he was supposed to listen to the Book of Life, to his Father, and he had not. With actions came consequences, and he supposed that that was why the throne room was so unbelievably cold at the moment. The marble must have been far below freezing; the temperature had seeped through his robes, was burning him in a way only pure cold-blooded anger was able to. His knees were already bleeding and blistered, frostbitten: a mere  _ whiff  _ of the punishment that was to come. 

George would be bargaining for his life. 

He heard his siblings talking quietly from their seats in the corner and knew what they were thinking. He had been able to tell beings’ emotions since before he had started reaping souls: it had been one of the first divine powers he had developed, and therefore the strongest. It had overwhelmed him at first, but he’d gotten used to it and had never fully mastered the art of blocking the influx. 

Never before had he wished more that he had. 

They were disappointed in him, frightened for him; the negativity rang in his ears, resounded in his chest, and it hurt so much that he felt as if his heart was bleeding. Two of the Archangels especially reeked of fear: Michael, who was younger than both Paul and George, and Raphael - or Richard, as he preferred to be called by his siblings - who was older. George knew they did not want to see him leave, Michael being frightened to be forced to fight against yet another brother and Richard dreading to bring the souls of the deceased up for judgement all on his own. 

The emotions dampered when His Divinity entered the courtroom. He did not use a physical form when around his children, but preferred to display His Divine Essence instead. It had never been comfortable; the sheer power Father held was unmeasurable, and it intimidated any being in His vicinity. Today, however, there was a feeling that George had not felt in millennia: that of anger. 

Pure anger.

The panic and fear hit him like a freight train. He pressed his cheek against the marble from his kneeled position, pathetically hoping the display of subservancy would please Father. 

He did not want to leave. 

He did not want to die. 

_ “Thanatos,”  _ His Divinity said gently, though His voice still echoed through the hall. 

George winced at the volume, breaths shallow. “Father,” he replied, and he noticed that his voice was choked with swallowed tears, “Father,  _ I’m sorry-” _

_ “Thanatos,”  _ He soothed,  _ “My Angel of Death. There is no need for this display of emotion, My son.” _

_ “I’m sorry,”  _ George hiccuped, and the room got colder. 

_ “Enough of this. You look pathetic.” _

He inhaled, deeply, and willed the tears to stop. His eyes were burning.

_ “You say you are sorry, yet you disobeyed Me nevertheless.”  _

“I did, Father.”

_ “You regret disobeying Me?” _

And he hesitated. 

For less than a second, but he hesitated. 

The room might as well have frozen over. 

_ “Your regret,”  _ He said, and His words echoed through the hall, _ “is not where it is supposed to be, Thanatos. You have defied My orders.” _

It was a miracle he did not tremble. “I have, Father,”

_ “You are aware that there are consequences to defying My orders.”  _ It wasn’t a question, but more or less stated as fact, as His Divinity knew, and He knew all. 

“I am, Father.”

_ “You will accept any punishment I deem fit.”  _

“I will, Father.”

_ “Very well, Thanatos.”  _ And he could hear his siblings audibly take in a breath. _ “You will be banished, and are to spend a millenium working under Lucifer. Torment mankind, My boy, be the cause of disasters, tug entire families away from their earthly existence, drag those evil and bad down to the Underworld in the most violent ways and see to their indefinite torture. That is my word.” _

Banishment. 

That was what had happened to Paul. He had been banished, cursed indefinitely to torture the most evil of the creatures he had adored so much. 

_ “Do you understand, My son?” _

His head was pounding, lungs were aching.

“I do, Father.”

_ “Very well.” _

With those words, the pain began - which is undoubtedly  _ not  _ what he had expected to happen. 

It felt as if a million white-hot, blunt knives were being dragged down his face, his back, his wings, tearing open everything in their path in the most torturous of ways. A blinding, deafening explosion inside his head; he might have screamed, or cried, dug his fingers into freezingly cold, hard marble until it shattered, but the pain did not stop. And though the ache and burning seared so strongly it blocked out all of his other senses, His voice still echoed:  _ “If you still are of the opinion humans should be allowed to live past their final date after the millenium, I have no qualms with extending your punishment.” _

Before he could comprehend or process what Father had told him, the floor opened up beneath him. An unknown, invisible force dragged him down as he desperately scratched at the smooth yet cracked stone; his talons must have snapped by now, as he was entirely unable to get even an ounce of grip.

Vines of magic snaked around his ankles, his waist, his wrists, bounded his  _ aching  _ wings to his back and tugged,  _ tugged- _

He was screaming as he fell.

There was something incredibly and excruciatingly frightening about not being able to control his flight. He was unable to so much _twitch_ his wings, torn and shredded and bound tightly to his back; even the caress of wind against his feathers and injuries _hurt._ The tears that had escaped from his eyes - the Angelic, acidic tears - blew off his face with the speed he was hurtling towards the earth with. 

And all he could hear over the loud ringing in his ears was a voice, whispering,  _ murmuring  _ in his own head.

_ “Has your curiosity not been quenched, my child?” _

Paul, though disappointed and angered, had been gracious enough to pick him up in person. 

He’d plucked his quivering, broken body from the depths of the deep-sea and taken him to his quarters in the Underworld. He had broken the invisible magic bounding his limbs, had washed his body and his hair, and had dried him off with a towel that felt too soft to belong to the place where the bad humans go. He’d brushed George’s hair, preened and ointed that what was left of George’s wings. He’d given up his bed and did not wake him until it was time for tea and biscuits, a meagre twenty-three hours later.

_ “I cannot say that I’m proud of what you’ve done,”  _ he had muttered from the edge of the bed, holding a dainty-looking cup so tightly George was frightened it might break.  _ “But I am pleased He sent you here, and did not leave you to rot.” _

_ “One mistake,”  _ George had rasped, before taking a careful sip of his tea. It had hurt to swallow back then, much like it had hurt to open his mouth. It had felt like his entire body had been shattered after he’d sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.  _ “Just one.” _

Paul had looked at him with his kaleidoscope eyes, misty and dull and  _ pained _ , and he had smoothed out his fringe.  _ “One sin, Thanatos, is still a sin.” _

George had been too tired to correct the name slip-up, and they had stopped speaking for that cycle. It was no secret to him that his family was angry: Father most certainly, but he knew that all of his siblings were too, even Paul, even if his case was a bit different than the rest of their siblings. Though he had never said it outright, he knew Paul was truly disappointed that George had been hurt almost as much as he himself had during and after the War. His Divinity, though seen as the prime example of forgiveness by humans, was not known as a parent who forgave or offered gentle punishment. 

And now George had the scars and nightmares to prove it.

Tea time continued to be a daily occurrence as George rested and willed his body to heal. Paul, in a way only a protective older brother could, continued to look disappointed and  _ sad  _ during their conversations. Even after George had proven he could fly again, which was a monumental achievement in and of itself, Paul’s smiles never quite reached his burnt-out eyes. 

It was not particularly surprising to George whenever he thought about the situation rationally. Paul had insisted he should not disobey, lest he reap the consequences like he reaped souls - and now he  _ had,  _ and he’d been  _ hurt.  _

Not just physically. 

Physically, he had healed just fine. His skin closed up, his talons grew back, and his wings filled in. The skin that had been burnt and ripped away was still weirdly smooth like only scars could be, his talons had grown in wonky, and his wings would be stiff and sore in the morning regardless of his hours in flight; but skin was skin, his talons were still deadly, and he could deal with the stiffness with some stretching. He was  _ fine  _ physically, healed up and healthy again. They had breached the subject of his duties one evening and George had been  _ fine  _ with physical work, had not been able to  _ wait _ to drag the most dreadful of sinners to hell after judgement. He still reaped souls, but only took them down, not up; the latter had become Raphael’s -  _ Richard’s -  _ job instead. 

Dragging sinners down had always been more taxing than taking the good ones up. They complained more, did not want to go when they realised they would go to the place of fire and sulphur and torture. George had no qualms taking those who had sinned.

So  _ physically,  _ George was  _ fine.  _

Mentally, he would re-lived his banishment in his head the moment he closed his eyes. 

Never before had he woken up in cold sweat, screaming in phantom pain, feeling as if invisible vines had snaked its way around his limbs and neck and were slowly choking him. It was the inevitable aftermath of an arguably quite traumatic experience and Paul, sweet, terrifying Paul had never  _ once  _ told him a  _ “I told you so,”.  _ He’d never been smug about the situation, had never rolled his eyes when George would come in for tea with dark circles and red eyes and had never stopped rushing into the bedroom when George would screech himself awake just a tad too loudly. He never complained when George’s hands shook so much he couldn’t pick up the tea cup, never glared when George was not mentally able to kneel for him when Paul had to be Lucifer and had to speak to his demonic minions like he was a king presenting a motivational seminar to his servants on a bleak Monday morning. He never said anything bad, because he understood. 

George was thankful for that.

“Richard contacted me,” Paul informed him on one dreary, swelteringly hot moment in the Underworld. He squinted at George, muscles in his shoulders tightening, as if he was calculating what George’s next move would be - as if the mere mention of the Archangel would set George off in a rage. “He said he’s encountered an...  _ issue _ on Earth.”

George straightened up. “And does this issue have any connection to me?” he asked quietly, and he involuntarily squeezed his cup of tea a little harder. It was a miracle the fragile china had not broken under his grasp yet. 

The look on Paul’s face spoke volumes, and George sighed deeply through his nose. 

“He has found a wandering soul,” the Devil himself began, obviously careful in choosing his words, and the manner in which he flicked his gaze over George’s face told him he was looking for any signs of breaking. “Someone who… is supposed to have been dead for a number of years.”

“The boy,” he interrupted. “The young man I spared.”

Paul nodded. “Though he hasn’t exactly been a  _ boy  _ as of late.”

“I assumed that His Divinity had cleaned up my mess at this point,” 

“I’m afraid dear old  _ Dad  _ has not bothered with that, nor has he informed any of our siblings of it - or  _ me,  _ for that matter.” Paul carefully reached out for the pile of biscuits in the middle of the table, and took his sweet time picking one. “Terribly out of character for Him, I must say, but I suppose it’s all part of His  _ grand plan.”  _

“Richard knew, though,” George murmured, frowning at the way Paul was digging through the pile, disregarding biscuit after biscuit. “I suppose He  _ must’ve  _ pushed him towards the boy, or none of us would have noticed -  _ what on  _ **_Earth_ ** _ are you doing?” _

Paul looked up sheepishly. The sugar on the biscuit in his hand glittered in the warm lighting. “Getting a biscuit.”

“By desecrating them  _ all?”  _ this angel was ridiculous. “The one that was on top looked  _ exactly  _ the same as the one you’re holding now-”

“No it  _ wasn’t,” _ Paul retorted, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. “It was  _ dirty.” _

“Why on  _ Earth  _ was it  _ dirty-  _ you know what, I don’t even  _ want  _ to know.” George waved his hand through the air in faux-annoyance, though he was secretly pleased to see that Paul had finally done something somewhat silly again: he hadn’t done so in quite some time. “Let us get back to the topic at hand.  _ The boy.”  _

“Right,” Paul said, and he chomped down on the biscuit with as much vigour as a demon who had not devoured a soul in centuries. “The boy. Well, he’s still walking the Earth. Which is odd, considering it has been nearly two centuries since and humans have an expiration date.”

“And Richard thinks,” George concluded, “that it is my fault.”

“Yes,” Paul replied almost immediately, raising his eyebrows when George shrunk away. “Is it not?”

“Truly depends on how you look at the situation, Paulie-”

“The problem,” Paul interrupted, munching on another biscuit did not take too long to pick out, “is that Richard has concluded that the boy is not human anymore.”

George frowned. “What do you  _ mean  _ by that?”

“I mean that the young man you spared during your Victorian misstep has been alive for nearly a  _ century  _ too long, yet still does not look a day over twenty.”

“He-  _ what?” _

“And  _ that  _ means,” Paul continued, eyes sparking with hellfire, “that we’re dealing with a demon created by the Angel of Death.”

To his credit, this was the first time George had ever broken a cup. The shards clattered on the table, sticking to the leaf-infused liquid that had fallen. 

“Though you’re not an angel anymore,” Paul mused as he swiped the broken porcelain into his hand, watching as George wiped up the spilt tea with his sleeve. “Not as much as I am, anyway.”

“Does that make me a demon?”

“The Demon of Death,” Paul said, and he shot George a small grin. “Has got a nice ring to it, has it not?”


	2. mors vincit omnia

A demon. 

Created by him. 

_ Great.  _

They weren’t even sure  _ what kind  _ of demon. Surely not the  _ I-possess-cute-little-Catholic-girls  _ kind, the ones who made humans growl in silly voices and puke at priests - he still had his physical form, so there would be no need to possess another. No, this demon was one made of flesh and blood, as indistinct as the humans it walked in between, somehow still twenty after one-hundred-and-eighty years on Earth. A damned soul, cursed to roam for eternity, all because George  _ gave in.  _

What a sad,  _ sad  _ concept. 

His Divinity must have known, must have anticipated it would happen. It would not surprise George in any way - His Holy Arsehole was, after all, all-knowing - and he wondered whether that was why his punishment itself, apart from the obvious mental and physical harm, was not as extreme as George had thought. Sure, dragging screaming human souls down to the pits of the Underworld to be tortured by Beelzebub - **_Brian,_** _he wished to be called_ ** _Brian_** _-_ and the like could be rather infuriatingly difficult, but it was not like he had never done so. The only difference was that he was no longer allowed to gift life to whom The Book of Life told him to, and he no longer visited the Afterlife. His workload had actually lightened significantly, which wasn’t punishment in the slightest - he’d actually started to have time to do _nothing,_ and boredom was an incredibly exciting concept - and he actually got an odd sense of joy from dragging the most evil, hurtful of souls down for an eternity of torture. 

But  _ this…  _

The idea of having  _ created  _ something with his own hands was both exciting and frightening, in that weird,  _ I-don’t-know-what-to-expect  _ kind of way. And though demons did not need to be evil, as they  _ were _ the Wardens and the Punishers of the Underworld and would never torture an innocent, it still felt weird that he had breathed a being that should not exist into existence by making one, small decision. 

It was no secret he felt nervous, then, as he stood in front of a large apartment building, stones old yet well-kept. He’d taken his time to look unbelievably  _ human,  _ fully aware that he could have placed himself in the apartment with one flap of his wings, but he had decided against it. An angel (... _ demon) _ in any form was intimidating enough, let alone in full theological garb, so he’d settled for a modern interpretation of a human who sucked the life out of others.

A businessman.

Of course. 

He had not gotten the suit tailored - it was Paul’s, who for some reason had  _ several  _ suits in the closet of his living quarters - and it was a bit baggy on him, courtesy to his slim stature. He nevertheless looked good enough for several people to look over their shoulder as he passed: their emotions, bleeding from their pores, he recognised as intimidation and attraction. Both of which he hoped were good things. 

The apartments in this part of the city could  _ not  _ have been cheap. George, in the limited time he had spent on earth, did have his fair share of knowledge on real estate in several countries and he was  _ certain  _ that this building, with its front desk man and its security system and its parking space, would have the more expensive condos the town had to offer. It would have to mean that John had gained a certain degree of wealth to be able to pay for it all; as not much was known about his little mistake, he was not sure how exactly John had access to so much money. He’d barely been on the richer side of the lower class when he was supposed to pass away, after all, so John must have made some very clever investments. 

He could not be evil, could not have attained his wealth through sinful deals. Paul had told him such while dressing George up like a doll, said it would most likely be impossible for him to have done something significantly evil.

_ “He has not done anything  _ **_terrible,”_ ** Paul’d said, squinting at George with an odd kind of excitement.  _ “We would have heard about it sooner if he had. Would have felt it. There is no demon that I am not aware of.” _

_ “Yours,”  _ he’d replied.  _ “You are aware of yours. This is my demon, is it not?” _

_ “I suppose,”  _ had been the answer, and Paul had straightened his collar all fussy-like.  _ “But I usually am aware when a human chooses to do something incredibly sinful, despite there being another option. I haven’t felt anything from him.” _

_ “He’s not human.” _

_ “Then you should have noticed,”  _ he’d mused.  _ “I would not worry too much, George. You are the Grim Reaper, and you are amazingly attractive to the human eye. He will break in a heartbeat.” _

And George, perhaps rather childishly, hoped that John would. 

The man at the front desk was easily swayable. Being a divine, supernatural creature had its perks, one of those being the act of persuasion: the man had not needed much and had happily agreed to  _ “not let Mr Lennon know, sir, of course!”,  _ and so George was on his way before he could so much smile at any of the people in the lobby. The apartment was not hard to find either - something that most likely had to do with the complex only having four condos - and the ease, though it should have been unnerving, made him feel uncharacteristically calm. 

He knocked. 

Cursing from somewhere in the apartment, followed by hasty footsteps and a dangling of keys. The lock clicked and the door swung open - and there stood John. 

The last time George had seen him he had been on the floor in an on-fire barn, with a fractured skull, a broken back, and severe internal bleeding. It was something he could barely have survived now, with more advanced healing techniques, let alone in the Victorian Era. But now he was standing upright, still looking twenty years of age, with a head full of curly hair, strong eyebrows, and fiery eyes. 

George cocked his head.

“John Lennon, is it not?” and he watched those pretty eyes widen with shock. Had George not been able to read emotions, he would have been able to read the ones the man in front of him was feeling right now easily. Fear, obviously, but also a sense of curiosity. 

“Oh my  _ God-” _

“That is what Christians call my Father, actually, but at the moment I consider him to have no relation to me.” He smiled, kindly. “May I come in?”

“You’re- you’re-”

“George,” he stated. “My name is George. May I come in, John?”

John silently stepped aside, and George took a careful step into the hallway. 

It was warm inside, he noticed. Warmer than what the average human would find comfortable. And yet, despite the absurd temperatures inside his apartment, John was still dressed in a thick sweater, knitted socks, and full-length trousers. He looked genuinely cold, shivering not only in fear; George decided to not comment on it. 

“Would you like something to drink?” John then asked, voice low. He almost sounded ashamed of it, as if he was expecting to get ridiculed. 

George nearly pitied him. 

“I would like that, thank you,” he answered quietly, and John sped past him, gesturing anxiously at the comfortable looking seating arrangement in his living room. Again, George listened to the unspoken suggestion, and he made his way into the apartment without hesitating too much. It did not  _ feel  _ like he was stepping inside a predator’s lair: if anything, John would be feeling much more like prey with an angel in his presence. 

“Whiskey? I’ve got this- I’ve got this good one, from the fifties, if you’d like-”

George made himself comfortable on one of the armchairs, staring at John’s trembling back. “Anything you have is fine.”

John nodded and yanked two tumblers from the shelves next to his drink-cabinet, quickly pouring in the amber liquid. Then, with jerky, awkward movements, he offered one of the glasses to George before immediately throwing back his own. 

“I’m certain you are wondering why I am here, aren’t you?” and John nodded quietly. When he didn’t speak, George took that as his que to continue. “And I am assuming you know who I am.”

John anxiously tapped his fingers against his empty glass, shifting from one foot onto the other. He reeked of nerves. “You’re- you’re  _ Azrael.  _ The Angel of Death.”

“Humans usually call me the Grim Reaper,” George replied. “Others call me Thanatos, or Mors. Nephthys, if they see me as a woman.” He smiled, careful to have it look kind and non-threatening. John visibly relaxed at the sight of the smile. “Most of my family, however, know me better as George. It is nice to officially make your acquaintance.”

“And why are you here?”

“You, my dear, are alive,” George stated bluntly, and he took a small sip of the whiskey. He had not drunk it often, only on the rare occasion Paul would break open a bottle from his useless collection if he did not feel like tea. It had no effect on angels, of course, but the taste was nice. “Which is an issue, as you are supposed to be dead.”

John’s jaw tightened. 

“The issue being, of course, that my siblings up in the sky are being constipated pigeons about it. They also do not want to deal with you, as you are a product of my misstep and therefore my problem.” He smiled again, a little wider this time. “I personally find you quite intriguing.”

“What for?” he asked quietly, and his grip tightened around his glass. The nerves were picking back up again, George noticed. 

“You have been alive for one hundred and eighty years, John,” George answered. “One hundred and sixty years of which, you were supposed to be dead. And yet, you have not aged a bit, like a photograph frozen in time. You can understand, of course,” he continued, grin widening at the increasing tenseness in John’s shoulders, “how curious I am to find out how that might have happened.”

John stared at him, eyebrows pulled into a concerned frown, and he went to sit down on the armchair across from George’s. “I don’t know,” he said, and George knew he was being honest. 

“Of course you don’t,” he said gently. “I’m quite certain I am not sure either. But I would like to find out.”

His chest was heaving, George noticed, as the boy thoughtfully stared off into the distance. He was still awfully handsome for a human being, but he did not find that important information right now; and so, when John opened his mouth to speak, George immediately pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

“I’m not human anymore,” John blurted, and then immediately leaned forward to put his glass down on the table. “I’m  _ not.” _

“Of course you aren’t,” George said, and he crossed his legs. “My older brother and I had concluded that much. The question is  _ what  _ you are.”

“I don’t  _ know,”  _ he muttered. John straightened up to look at him again; his eyes looked panicked, and he sounded like he had been upset with that information ever since he discovered he did not age. “I don’t- I don’t need to  _ breathe,  _ my heart doesn’t beat, and cuts heal like they were never there in the first place-”

“I would call that a positive.”

“But it  _ shouldn’t be,”  _ John pressed. “It  _ shouldn’t.  _ I’m not- I don’t  _ age  _ anymore, I heal more quickly than any person on earth. I  _ buried  _ my  _ family  _ and now I don’t  _ have any-” _

“But you’re alive,” George said, voice soft and gentle, and he gestured at the young man. “Is that not what you wanted?”

“I’m not  _ alive,”  _ he cried, “I’m- I’m  _ here,  _ I’m  _ living,  _ but I’m not  _ alive.  _ I don’t  _ feel  _ alive- every day is  _ torture,  _ and it feels as though I am being punished for asking for something minor-”

This was more interesting than any begging soul he had ever had at his feet. All they wanted was to  _ live -  _ this one, this soul trapped in a body that cannot decay, only wished to  _ die.  _ “Is that not what you wanted?” he repeated curiously, head cocked to the side. “Is that not what you wished for - what you  _ begged for?  _ To still be here?”

John stared at him. His Adam’s apple bobbed, indicating that he had swallowed. If George assumed correctly it was a useless action that John needn’t do; futile human functions no longer applied to him now that he was  _ Other,  _ a part of His universe in full. An interesting outlier in a world of predictability. “I didn’t,” he said quietly. “Not really. I asked to be here for a moment longer, so that I would have my chance to say goodbye and that I loved them. I got that chance - but as it turns out, I had not needed to have done so at all.” He paused, blinking rapidly. “I asked for a day,” he murmured, still sounding pained, “and I received one and a half centuries.”

They fell quiet, the only sound being the ticking of the wall-clock above the door to the hallway. John was right. He had not asked for two extra lifetimes, he had asked for just enough time to say goodbye. And George had not been able to help him. 

“I apologise for not being able to give you what you asked for,” he offered, though John did not react. “It’s just- were you healed, after I left? When I extinguished the fire and let you be, you were still hurt, were you not? I could feel it-”

“After- after you left, I still couldn’t move,” John told him. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of his glass carefully, looking down at his feet. “There was no fire, but I hadn’t stopped bleeding. I hadn’t- I was barely able to blink. I had lost all feeling from my waist down already, but less than a minute after you had left me I no longer could flex my fingers, and then I couldn’t swallow, and then I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink. I was just staring at the ceiling and as my heart stopped beating.” He swallowed harshly. “There was no function left in my body, yet I was still there, trapped, only able to see. And then someone joined me.”

George stayed quiet. 

“They had wings, like you, and they were wearing robes, but their face was completely dark. I couldn’t- I wasn’t able to distinguish who they were, or what they were, or what they looked like. And they… they snapped their fingers, and I could breathe again. When I tried to speak to- to  _ thank  _ them, or  _ speak  _ to them, they vanished.”

A sibling, then. A sibling had helped him, had tried to fix George’s mistake, but had done so insufficiently. It was not particularly surprising: this had never happened before, none of the Angels had ever  _ not  _ listened to His Divinity or The Book of Life. 

Mistakes were to be expected. 

“I could move my toes when I wanted. I could stand, I could walk, I could push open doors, and I could run. Yet everything was  _ wrong.”  _ John stood, paced towards the large windows overlooking a park. “My heart didn’t beat, and I was so fucking cold all the time. And I- I went to say goodbye to my family. To my aunt, and to my fiancée, and they looked at my funny, asked why I wasn’t at the job interview. I thought you were going to take me away. I spent the night at home, and when they touched me they said I was freezing. When Cynthia hugged me she asked why my heartbeat was so quiet- she asked because  _ she couldn’t hear it either. _

“I left the next day, went deep into the woods. It was so cold, and so wet, but I didn’t tremble because my body couldn’t warm itself up. I cut myself on a branch and I didn’t bleed, and saw the cut heal up within seconds. And I- I  _ knew  _ that I didn’t belong anymore. That I needed to go. So I waited for you, waited to be picked up and carried towards wherever the dead go. But you didn’t come.” He exhaled through his nose. “So I fled.”

George tilted his head to the side. He was itching to find out what happened but did not want to upset John further: the distress leaking from the human was making him uncomfortable. “Where to?”

“The mainland, first,” John answered. “I went to Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona. I nicked a guitar and taught myself some chords, then hitchhiked. I wrote to my family that I wasn’t coming back but would keep in touch.”

“Did you?”

“Eventually.” He paused, and when he turned to look at George, George noticed he was biting his lip in thought. “I sent sporadic letters without a return address, until I had settled in Germany and was making a decent living off a club I had set up. One of my half-sisters wrote to me that my aunt was on her deathbed, so I visited.” A smile spread across his face, bitter and pained. “She thought she was hallucinating, and then she cried, and they- and they- they  _ all _ thought I was dead, that some madman was sending those letters and that my sister had written me in the hope of it actually being me. She was correct, of course, but after she saw me they were all convinced I was my own son instead. So I… I said I was-”

“An unexpected problem with human immortality.”

“And it is  _ your _ fault,” John snapped, stalking closer. His eyes were on fire again, the flames behind his irises eerily similar to Paul’s, and he was gritting his teeth. George did not flinch. “I had to- I had to  _ bury  _ my aunt, the one I saw as my mother, as my  _ great aunt.  _ I had to say goodbye to her with her thinking I was my father’s son, who was  _ dead  _ in her eyes, and that she did not know me and I her. She was in  _ pain  _ all those years and it reignited in  _ full  _ when she saw me and it is  _ your fault-” _

“It was your own decision to leave,” George said quietly. “You did this entirely on your own. My Father has a plan for everyone, but after you did not die when you were supposed to, you had free reign. You  _ have  _ free reign. I may have not taken you when you expected me to, but instead of running you could have returned. Explained the situation. Have your family  _ guard  _ you.”

“No, no-” John shook his head erratically, stumbling back. “I’m all alone and it’s your fault, you listened to my dumb request and now I’m alive while I shouldn’t be-”

“How did you get enough money to live here?” he interrupted, and he stood to full height now too. He was a couple of inches taller in human form, and it pleased him to no end to see John cower at the sight of his stature. “You told me you had a  _ club  _ in Germany in the late eighteen hundreds, but you live in  _ England  _ now. And this apartment is not exactly  _ cheap-” _

“I inherited money from relatives,” he was shaking again, like he had when he had opened the door to find George standing in front of him, and the fire in his eyes had gone down. “I- I sold the club. I bought the building and built apartments, rented them out and still do-”

“A  _ landlord,” _ George mused. “From a potential school teacher, to a travelling musician, to a club owner, to a bloody  _ landlord.  _ And you’ve been here for  _ how long,  _ exactly? A century?”

“Y-yes-”

“And how have you kept up the ruse? A hundred years is a long time for a human to look twenty, is it not? How many identities have you taken up? Have you  _ stolen?” _

“I’ve never killed and stolen identities,” John cried, chest heaving. “I’ve never- names showed up on my doorstep, I swear- I would move out for a month or two and then come back with a different first name and the papers just appeared in my letterboxes-”

George flared his nostrils in doubt, but he could not sense any nerves originating from deceit on the human, so he sighed and allowed his muscles to relax. John stumbled further back until his back was against his liquor cabinet, and George sat down in the armchair again. 

The clock ticked. 

“It appears someone is helping you,” he then said quietly. “Which is odd, considering none of my siblings knew about your…  _ situation  _ until a few days ago. You have really managed to stay out of sight. Which is also odd, because we usually  _ know  _ what humans do-”

“I don’t think I’m fully human anymore,” John whispered. He was gripping the wood of the cabinet tightly, knuckles paler than the rest of his skin. “I really don’t.”

George quietly stared at the human-not-human standing across from him, all pale and shaking, distressed enough for the emotions to roll off him in  _ waves.  _ “What do  _ you  _ think you are?”

John locked his upset gaze with George’s calm one, and didn’t say anything.

“Alive, but not alive. Barely living.” He leaned back, crossed his legs, and pursed his lips.  _ “Undead,  _ is what humans call it, is it not? 

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed again. George was still of the opinion that it was out of habit, rather than out of a genuine need for it. A waste of energy. 

“What do you think you are, John? One of those rotting, brain dead creatures, like in that show-  _ what’s it called…  _ the strolling corpses?”

_ “The Walking Dead,”  _ the not-human corrected. His jaw was clenched. “I don’t- I don’t think I’m a zombie. I don’t  _ rot,  _ remember?”

“A ghost, then? Spirit?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?” George leaned forward. “My brother and I have got an idea, but I would much rather have you figure it out yourself.”

“I- I feel like how the modern media characterise a vampire,” John said slowly, still staring wide-eyed at George. “But I don’t want to drink blood, and I can step into the sun, and I can’t fly. I look like a normal human being, but my heart does not work and I don’t bleed and I heal quicker than any regular human.”

“Vampires,” George said, “are a kind of demon. So you’re quite close.”

His comment was perhaps a tad too soon. The mere mention of the word “demon” had John launch himself away from the liquor cabinet, chuckling in a slightly deranged way, and he stumbled towards the armchair he had previously been occupying. “I can’t be a- a  _ demon,”  _ he wheezed, gripping the backrest of the chair tightly, and he stared at George as if he would tell him it was a joke. “Demons aren’t- they’re not  _ human-” _

“And you’re not human, John,” George said quietly. “And even if you’re not fully a demon, you’re still a cursed soul. You are supposed to be in purgatory, awaiting your trial, or be in whatever place after death the Jury sentenced you to, but instead you are  _ here,  _ on Earth, in a corpse that will not live but refuses to rot before its assigned host leaves.”

“Why don’t you take me then?” he asked, hysteria bleeding into his voice. “Why won’t you whisk me out of my body  _ right now  _ and carry me off to purgatory if that is where I need to be?”

“It is not that simple, John,” George explained. “It is not ideal for you now, I am aware of that, but it is not that simple because you will not be judged fairly-”

“What does that  _ mean?” _

“It means,” he pressed, watching as John slowly appeared to descend into a panic attack, “that even if would allow you to exit that flesh sack you call a body, your essence will be too tainted for you to ever be sent to the Afterlife - or  _ Heaven,  _ if that is what you call it - but you will also be too pure to be sent to the Underworld. I can  _ see  _ your soul and it is too grey to be judged, John-”

“But-”

“-and you will be  _ stuck  _ for longer than you were here on Earth, which would be torture in and of itself.” George breathed in, deeply, and rubbed his eyes. “I have only visited you to  _ explain  _ why I have made the decision I had already made.”

John was fully silent and did not seem to notice when George looked at him again, staring at the ticking clock with a distressed expression. George stood, smoothed out Paul’s suit, and walked a bit closer.

“If you are wondering what my decision is,” he started, “then I must admit I am not entirely sure yet. But I want to discuss you with my brother and have him help me judge you before we make any permanent decisions.”

John’s gaze flicked from the clock to George, and though George was not sure he was able to cry, he looked like he was about to. “What will you do?”

“I will take you with me,” George answered, “to visit my brother. That is essentially what the plan entails. I cannot tell you anything else.”

John licked his lips and swallowed again. “Do I need to pack clothing if you’re not going to kill me?”

“If you’d like,” he nodded, and John nodded in lieu of a reply before carefully pushing himself away from the armchair and making his way to what George assumed was his bedroom. 

He sighed deeply, as he knew that this would be an intense mistake to fix. He assumed that this was part of his punishment; His Divinity knew all, so he must have known about this, too, and allowed it to simmer before he sent Richard to inform George that he should take care of it. A human-turned-demon was  _ unheard  _ of, but he had smelt it on John the moment he had set foot in the apartment: the slightest hint of sulphur and ancient magic that reminded him so much of home. Paul would have to evaluate the situation - he, after all, knew better than any angel how to deal with demons - and then they would have to discuss together what their Father  _ meant  _ by this exactly. 

The entire situation was unnerving him. 

It did not take John long before he had packed what he wanted, as he only had a small backpack slung over his shoulder when he emerged from his room again. George could hear his footsteps - awkward, clumsy, impatient, reluctant - echoing through the little hallway, and he would have found it  _ cute  _ if he had not stopped himself. 

“So,” John said quietly, “do you have a  _ car,  _ or-”

John had fallen quiet. 

Of course he had, considering that George had finally shed his human suit.

Paul’s actual, physical, made-out-of-cloth suit he had stuffed carefully in one of the many magical pockets his robes held, because he would have torn out of them if he had still worn them. His human-appropriate angelic form was tall, taller than most humans, and his wings were gigantic and intimidating despite still recovering from their wounds after two centuries. 

“I’d rather fly,” George said gently, and before John could so much answer he had swept the human up and jumped right through the window. 

One of the perks of being a divine being is that humans could not see you unless you wanted them to- and he had extended that power briefly to John, as he would rather not give humans a heart attack as another human floated through the air. 

John clutched himself close, face buried in his shoulder as he obviously tried not to scream. It was almost amusing; he had never given a creature other than souls a - literal - lift, and the vague realisation that John must feel the gravitational forces pulling at his body made George remember that he probably should not fly for too long, lest John’s more-fragile-than-his body fall apart in his arms. 

Before long they had reached the place where, thousands of miles below, the entrance to the Underworld lay. It was an unruly day in the Atlantic, grey clouds dragging themselves through the heavens while strong winds beat at their form. The waves, foaming with anger, beat against each other below George’s feet. 

“It appears,” George called over the roar of nature around them, “Daddy is not having a good day today.”

And he dove. 

John shrieked, arms tightening around him, and he yelled something about whether George was actually planning on diving in. 

“Relax,” he answered, “you cannot drown, can you?”

And they went under. 

Life below the waves was significantly more calm than above despite the heightening pressure, and John produced a particularly large bubble as the air was pushed out of his lungs. He was trembling again, obviously panicking with the prospect of drowning, but George ignored the young man’s dramatics: he merely swam closer to the sea floor at a dizzying speed, the water pressure not being of any issue to him. 

It shouldn’t be to John either, anyway, not while they were still touching. 

The water grew colder and the environment grew darker, and he heard John scream when a particularly large animal swam past them with a flick of its tail. The animal would not have bothered them, as it was entirely blind at this depth and merely ate at rotting corpses floating down, but George did not particularly mind the panic when he briefly placed himself in the perspective of a human who had never experienced such animals before. He held John a little closer to his chest as he further sank down. 

He knew he’d been very precise with his dive when the water suddenly got warmer, almost to a human-approving degree. The gates of the Underworld burnt under water, heating the liquid around it to scorching temperatures, but the opening itself - only available to souls and divine creatures - was tolerable. George walked closer, John still clutching desperately at his robes, and jumped through. 

The first thing that greeted him was the invasive damp of sulphur that he breathed into his lungs. He had come to enjoy it over the soft and gentle smell of sage that the Afterlife offered, had come to associate it with comfort in both physical and mental forms and with Paul, who he felt was the only being he could truly trust. 

He set John down - who was swaying on his feet - and looked out over the endless, sloping lands of the Underworld. It was silent on the grounds, the sounds of punishment never quite reaching the entrance; souls did not dare to come closer, lest they be punished harsher. 

“What  _ is  _ this place,” John whispered, who appeared to have recovered slightly from the flight and swim. He was still clutching George’s sleeve tightly, still trembling in place, but at least he did not feel as upset as he did before. “Is this where the dead go?”

George smiled. “This, my funny little human, is the Underworld. Welcome.”

He would have to feel welcome, anyway, if they were going to make the smallest crack at solving this mistake. John was in pure awe as he looked around while they walked, listening intently while George pointed out several places. He seemed  _ genuinely  _ interested, like a knowledge-hungry child in an ancient history museum. It was odd, considering his obvious panic less than an hour before, but it was also incredibly endearing. 

It made George  _ feel  _ things - things he did not know he  _ could.  _

John did not appear to be frightened of Paul when he met him, as Paul had decided to come out at his human height. He glowered at George until he, too, changed, and patiently answered any of John’s pressing questions about the Underworld. He was being kind and gentle towards the human-not-human, the male of the species they both cared for so much: George was glad John was not too frightened in the Devil’s presence. 

But as he walked behind John and Paul, the feeling in his stomach and heart worsened. It did not make sense, as he had never  _ felt  _ this way before towards a non-divine being and supposedly was entirely unable to feel that way as well. Affection for family was one thing, but affection for creatures not even the same species was entirely and utterly insane.

And as his stomach clenched when they sat down for tea and he saw John smile carefully for the very first time at  _ “how English”  _ it all was, he could not help but wonder whether Father had held out on the details of his punishment. 

But he could not have, could he? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did like, a LOT of research for this fic. I'm not Christian (though some of my jewellery suggests otherwise) and only went to Christian elementary schools, so most of my knowledge comes from that, the Netflix-series Lucifer, and 3 am Wikipedia deep-dives while I was at age sixteen. I needed to refresh my memory badly.  
> Though this is not all I originally planned, it got a _tad_ long, so I cut it off about a third of the way in.   
> I'm not sure if it will be continued (the ending i had planned is hella exciting imo) because I'm, well, a lazy motherfucker, but we'll see!! we'll see.   
> I sincerely hoped you enjoyed reading this!! Please leave kudos and/or a comment, I really appreciate those!   
> xx


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